Just Because!
by Wildhorses1492
Summary: Or "the five reasons why I COULD NOT date Sherlock Holmes." Most women – the female population in general – would love, they say, to go out "just once" with the consulting detective. I am not of that percentage. In fact, I'm utterly grateful he's altogether eternally out of my reach.
1. Reason One

**Reason 1:**

 **We hate going anywhere when it's really pointless to leave the flat. Yet we absolutely detest doing nothing all day.**

* * *

"John called; he says we should go out to dinner with him and Mary." I trudged back to the living room with my mug of hot chocolate. Sitting down, drawing my legs up onto the settee, I glanced at Sherlock, who always managed to surprise me by curling up perfectly in that stupid armchair. I think what irritated me most was that I couldn't do it. And before you go on, I know I can't– I've tried.

"Dull. Boring. Ordinary. Why isn't there a case for me to solve?!" He ended with a frustrated sound.

"Because you don't take any of the ones Greg tells you about. If you did, then perhaps we could go some _where_ ," I huffed back in annoyance at his whining. Mary was right when she warned me that Sherlock's a drama queen. Bloody hell. . .

"Oh, you want to go out, do you?" He seemed to perk up a bit, looking over at me, his hair a mess and that familiar dulled look in his eyes when he wasn't doing The Work.

"No, it's cold outside, and besides, what fun would it be standing around with you, analyzing every human in eyesight?" I retorted. He didn't want to go anyway, I knew it, I knew him. He wasn't going to leave this flat for anything less than a murder or. . . if John forced him to. I ground my teeth at that, disgusted to admit the truth. Only for John did anything out of Sherlock's comfort zone matter.

"Stop doing that!" His eyes narrowed. Always pisses him off when I grind my teeth; says he can't think when I do it. So I do it whenever I guess the answer to a question or a case before him. Drives him half-mad, knowing he's behind on the answer, though it rarely happens.

"I can do what I want to! Unless you find something interesting for us to participate in," I shot right back. He huffed, muttering under his breath, rearranging himself back into the fetal position in the damned chair. I was five days away from burning it to make him stand and be forced to move about the flat. I am _so sick_ of the whining. And then he sends a possible case away after complaining he's bored!

"Wait. . . who's 'Greg'?" I knew he'd be sitting up about now, looking over at me, but I ignored him. I smiled to myself, holding my novel in front of my face. That was a good laugh; he could never remember Lestrade's name no matter how many times in a day they texted or talked; well, Sherlock talked and Greg listened. Poor man. . .

"Think about it," I muttered, looking at him over the top of my novel. He frowned, fading off into that vast mind of his which I _knew_ had to rival the expanse of the cosmos. I wonder if Peri's made it into that Mind Palace of his yet. My lovely piano; what's wrong with giving instruments names? I know he's named that beautiful violin, though he's yet to tell me.

"No, I don't know!" he suddenly exploded, disturbing the peace and quiet of the flat. I _do_ hope Mrs. Hudson won't come up because of his outburst. She can be extremely annoying when she does that, considering she always thought Sherlock would find "another boyfriend" after John, and I then turned out to be female, which surprised her. She doesn't believe Watson and neither do I most-times. . . You can see it in his eyes when he comes to visit or works on a case with Sherlock.

"Gregory. . . Gregory. . . his last name begins with an 'L', surely you know this," I taunted in a singsong tone, grinning like the Cheshire Cat behind my novel, only my eyes visible.

"Stop it, I'm trying to think!" he ordered, closing his eyes tightly, bowing his head like he always does.

"Oh, that's not going to help, you never remember this one!" I teased, enjoying myself too much, I'll allow.

"Lestrade!" He jumped up, standing and looking at me; though he was rather impassive about the whole thing, there was that little something in his eyes which appeared whenever he figured out an answer.

"Of course, but you can never remember his first name. You really should write it down and put it in your Palace somewhere; how about with the letter A from the League?" I suggested.

"And what makes you think I kept all that idiotic mess?" he argued defensively.

"I just know," I answered mysteriously, feeling entirely devious. ' _John, you were right!'_ I thought to myself. Leave it to Sherlock to memorize the all the words beginning with the letter 'A' when he had the opportunity.

"John told you; you have that look on your face which is only there if _John_ told you something that you wouldn't have known about otherwise!" he exclaimed, sounding annoyed as he rolled his eyes and collapsed back into the chair, ruffling his hair quickly as he made himself comfortable again.

"How about I make up a case for you to solve, and then we go out for dinner?" I asked, looking up after a brief interlude.

"No, besides, where would we go?" He scowled.

"Angelo's?" I suggested.

"Um, no," he quickly declared with lifted eyebrows, disregarding my idea entirely.

"Fine then; where do _you_ want to go?"

"I don't know; how about that place on –"

"No, no, no! Never again, Sherlock; never again!"

"Then there's absolutely no benefit whatever in removing myself from this chair, taking a shower, or changing my clothes; we don't have to call John, either." Sherlock sighed, glaring off into the kitchen as he pondered _something_ with that brilliant mind of his.

"Why would we have to call John if we're going out?" I asked, tossing my book onto the coffee table, looking at him with arms crossed.

"Because you're sarcastic and I will find some less-than interesting case to amuse myself with, idiot!" he returned, looking over at me momentarily as if it were obvious.

"Drama queen; and I'm _not_ sarcastic," I muttered back, rolling my eyes.

"Yes you are. I am _not_ a drama queen! John told you that too, didn't he?" Sherlock's head rose slightly.

"Who else could've told me?" I needled.

"Mary Sue Louise Stratham, I am just as much a drama queen as John Watson!" He raged, looking as if he wished John's browning was still in residence. Oh, don't look at me; I certainly wasn't about to give him _mine!_

"Why are you calling me by my full name, Sherlock?" I stood too, hands going to my hips, temper rising.

"Because I wanted to," he replied, suddenly looking sulky. "Why don't we go walk London?" he asked, glancing round the room.

"Why don't you read about the solar system?" I tossed back, gesturing to a book on the table.

"That's utterly useless information! Why would I bother keeping _that?"_ He motioned to the book dismissively.

"Oh, go play your violin so I can listen!" I was tired of this. We weren't going to go out, and we both didn't want to be home. I'd rather hear the violin screech as he played something than deal with moody silence, and I can bet he would rather play than argue with me.

"Why?"

"Because I want you to!" I replied.

"Why suddenly now?" He narrowed his eyes, analyzing me, I could tell. No, I huffed internally, I wasn't hiding a possible case from him. Believe me, one for him at this moment would be wonderful!

"Just be _cause_!" I shouted, watching as he walked toward his room.

"F _in_ e!" he yelled back, sounding equally immature.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I have never stepped foot into the Sherlock FFN except to read, so this is. . . different. I don't know where the idea came from, only that it started with a Hobbit fanfic idea - yet to be finished - about a mary-sue who has a romantic interest - or maybe it never got that far - in one of the leading male characters.** ** _Just Because_** **is the first short fanfic in the series which I intend to spread through several fandoms on here.**

 **I'm a fan of Sherlock, but I don't think I'm as detailed as most of ya'll. However, I** ** _have_** **tried. Obviously I'm not British, so, that's the reason something is not English about this short fanfic. I play the piano, and since this is about a** ** _mary-sue/_** **Sherlock pairing she's going to have quite a few of my characteristics. Such as my emotions and temperament. Probably my sarcasm and cynicism too.**

 **And no, I don't really ship Johnlock. I'm more Sherlolly.**

 **The letter 'A' and the League is reference to "** ** _The Red-Headed League_** **" by Sir A.C. Doyle.**

 **Please do tell me what you think.**

 **\- WH**


	2. Reason Two

**Reason 2:**

 **The flat would always be a ghastly wreck and we'd blame one another for its state.**

* * *

"Mary Sue! Sherlock, what's blocking the door?" John's voice came from the other side of the partition, and I could hear him breathing heavily as he struggled to push against it. I looked up from where I sat on the floor, arranging several magazines for a particularly strange case Sherlock and I were working on. I was currently determined to win it, since Sherlock had gone out to review something Greg recently brought to the station.

"John, I'm out here and Mary Sue is in the flat. If you had thought it through you would have realized that I would never block the door with my private habits of housekeeping– Mrs. Hudson wouldn't let me." I could tell he was smiling that short, brief smile without even seeing his face. I rolled my eyes.

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson has repeatedly informed you throughout your entire residency here that she is your landlady, not your housekeeper. The only thing she does is ensure you – and me now – has tea every morning, and that we eat at least once a day. She's also probably the one confusing your sock drawer too, since she does make certain we have clean clothing to wear every morning." No, I was not going to get up to help them in, and yes, I had guessed this interesting bit of information after living with Mr. Sherlock Holmes for only five months.

"What? Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock's voice echoed a bit as he turned and walked back down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat. I smiled as John came in the other door; the one leading into the kitchen. It was quiet, and so I went on about my work, reading the ads and the stories, searching for the answer to my quandary.

"What, in the world, are you doing?" I jumped, I'll admit, startled when John spoke.

"You're exceedingly intelligent, John, smart enough to get into St. Barts and come out of Afghanistan alive, with only a flesh wound in the shoulder and a psychosomatic limp to show for your years of faithful service to the crown and England, therefore, I want you to deduce what I'm doing," I murmured, leaning over the magazines and analyzing each one carefully.

"You're. . . looking at magazine. . . columns– ads? And circling the words that are important," he declared slowly, coming closer. Whatever he had been going to do upon coming here was obviously temporarily forgotten in the face of this far more interesting venture. Well, fine, perhaps it was not so interesting to him, as he backed up several feet when Sherlock bounded up the stairs– and I really mean bounded. He was too bright for our case. . . He'd come across a clue of some sort, I'll wager.

"Mary S– God, Mary Sue, what have you been doing? I feel as if a terrorist has attacked my flat," Sherlock declared, looking around with a mild expression of annoyance and disgust. Figures; when someone besides him creates chaos, he notices it.

"It looks like this all the time, I just added my own personal touches," I retort, stringing some more words together into my code.

"No, it does not. You have unbalanced the state of this room; set it to rights. I can't stand clutter," he muttered, picking up a sheaf of papers, newspapers, and magazines from his armchair and dumping them quite unceremoniously upon the ground, so that they splayed out in every direction across the floor. I scowled as he crossed his legs and steepled his long fingers under his chin. Damn him. All my work– was it nothing?

"You make more of a mess in this flat than I do, Sherlock!" I shouted, my temper flaring. Not enough, was it, that I had to deal with certain things every woman had to, while at the same time helping him with his ridiculous case? Was it not enough that I gave him my time and put in the hours, just for him to turn me maid when it suited and clean up his explosion of garbage as well as my own? Bloody hell, I wasn't his housekeeper either!

"You're shouting is overdramatic and largely distracting. I am trying to think; if you must have a moment, please, by all means step out," Sherlock declared, eyes still closed, still sitting perfectly statuesque in his damned chair.

"No! You stop your thoughts and get up from that chair; if I must pause in the case you must too!" I demanded, reaching over and jerking on his arm to unsettle him. He looked over at me with that annoyed, childish expression of frustration coming over his face. I crossed my arms stubbornly and glared down at him.

"Mary Sue, I do not make such hideous calamities, I –"

Before he could speak, and as I was about to start screaming and crying ridiculously, John blessedly interrupted.

"Sherlock, you _do_ make this flat a wreck and you always have. Mary Sue, you're no less tidy. So, I think the both of you should stop working on this infernal case for a moment and clean this flat up a bit; do some dusting and some vacuuming. Clean the kitchen of your retched experiments, Sherlock, and then resume whatever it is you're doing, all right?" He looked at us expectantly, slightly exasperated as if he were our parent or elder.

Sherlock was staring at him, a slightly incredulous look upon his lean features. "Fine, fine!" He threw up his hands, standing with a resigned sigh. "We'll clean, but I am the tidier person!" he declared, moving off toward the kitchen and his latest failed experiment.

"I'm just as tidy!" I retort, rolling my eyes as I look at John.

"Just, clean up this mess," Watson answers, gesturing to the floor before turning to work on the blockage at the door.


	3. Reason Three

**Reason 3:**

 **We constantly irritate the other on or about cases. We're also forever interrupting the other because we want to solve the case first.**

* * *

"Anderson, did your parents ignore you as a child?" I smiled rudely at him as I brushed past after Sherlock. The forensics member blinked; his face a disgusted scowl.

"No."

"That explains it then," I declared, giving him a quick once-over and turning on my heel. Damn Sherlock! But then, he never waited for me; he didn't like the idea that I'd get answers before him as much as I hated it that he'd practically solve the case before I reached the room or location. "Always waited for you, John," I muttered under my breath to the absent Dr. Watson. He had been indisposed at his practice, leaving me to waft through London's less-than-prestigious with the consulting detective.

"Figures Sherlock would only collect someone who's like him," Philip said sarcastically, but just loud enough for me to hear.

"Yeah, now we have two freaks. I just thought the female version would be a little friendlier," Donovan commented. I paused long enough to glare back at them before coming to Sherlock's side.

"Well?" I stared over the body. Young man, around twenty-five. His hair was short, but just brushed the back of his collar, and was gelled nicely. His brown eyes stared up at the ceiling. Cheap jeans, old but semi-expensive shirt, black converses, and no phone in sight, not even in his pockets. I frowned, noticing that Sherlock was puzzled by this bit too.

He turned sharply. "Lestrade! Lestrade, no one moved anything from this crime scene, did they? Not even Anderson?" He glanced back at a spot on the floor, and I noticed that it appeared as if something had been there; the dust on the floor, smooth everywhere else in that corner, and been disturbed in one section.

Greg came over, looking bewildered. "No; you know, Sherlock, that no one goes in really until after you come," he declared, looking around the room.

"But someone's been here," I broke in. Sherlock gave me the " _shut up, I'm doing this_ " look, but I ignored it. "The young man's phone, where is it? And the laptop," I added offhandedly.

Now both Sherlock and Greg looked bewildered. "You can see, Sherlock, if you had been really looking," I added as a subtle jab to his expertise, "that this is not large enough or narrow enough to have been a briefcase. But it's not the right shape for a carton, either. So, what was here? Clearly not a purse, since he came alone and is single," I paused for effect, as Sherlock did when he was showing off.

"Where did you find a female version of you?" Greg looked at his friend-who-wouldn't-ever-say-they-were-friends with interest.

"I taught her everything that she could possibly know," Sherlock declared, dismissing Greg with a wave of his hand, moving over to me.

"I'm going to make you pay for that later," I murmured so only he could hear.

"Hmm, now, the laptop?" he asked. _Well, personal victory for me!_ I silently cheered.

"Don't do that," he commanded, glancing over at me.

"What?"

"Your internal exultations of victory, they're annoying and putting me off," he answered in an undertone, moving around the corpse.

"I thought only Anderson put you off," I remarked, lifting my black eyebrows as I glanced over the corpse's left hand.

"What about the laptop and his not having a date?" Lestrade broke into our silent conversation, Sherlock looking at me from across the body for what might have been several minutes.

"Oh, simple really," Sherlock straightened, "All his clothes are worn and rather old; clearly he hasn't cared to keep up appearances. But, he isn't looking for a companion, why not?" Sherlock glanced over at me, smiling just a bit. I huffed. Well, one to him then.

"Because all his clothes are old?" Greg guessed weakly. Sherlock bit back a retort about the stupidity of the police and carried on.

"No– because he hasn't bothered to trim the hairs in his ears and his nose; little things like that which men wouldn't really notice, especially close friends, but a woman would. Why? Because women seem to notice those things and are particularly keen on an orderly companion, and don't like to attend parties, meetings or dinners with an untidy man – a man untidy in the eyes of her female friends and relatives' eyes – or at least Mary Sue would say such," he casually commented. Was that an insult or a compliment? Who knows with Sherlock Holmes?

"Also, he isn't wearing any cologne, usually a man, any man, searching for a partner or simply on the prowl in nightclubs would wear cologne. But he's not, so what can we deduce from that?" Sherlock paused, glancing at Greg and Anderson, who had joined the DI in the entrance to the room.

"That he's not into dating women?" Anderson queried cynically, spreading his hands as if it didn't matter.

"Oh, for God's sake, Anderson, do shut up, I cannot _abide_ your idiotic postulates!" Sherlock admonished sharply, moving past him and then stopping at Greg.

"That he doesn't care much what ladies think?" Lestrade tried; a confused, frustrated look on his face because he had no idea where Sherlock was going with this.

"No, that he hasn't been around women of late; either he's been in one too many pubs or he's spent altogether too much time with old friends," Sherlock finished. "I would bet highly on the latter, considering the condition his converses are in," Sherlock added thoughtfully, looking over the body once more.

"But what about the laptop; Sherlock, I cannot believe how slow you are," I needled, sighing as if he was so incredibly slow that I found it exasperating.

Sherlock stopped, lifted his head, and looked around the room. "It's so incredibly stupid it's brilliant. Anderson, this is a man after your own heart." Sherlock smiled that annoyingly bright smile meant to piss people off and began moving around the room.

After that brief interlude, Sherlock fairly solved the case and we found ourselves headed back to the flat on Baker's Street. As we stood there, waiting for a cab, he glanced over at me. "Why must you always involve yourself in my cases? Can't you just stand there, like John always does?" he asked, turning to focus back on the street and the vehicles zipping up and down it.

"What, it's not as if you honestly want me to stand there silently appreciating you, is it?" I smirked uncomfortably, knowing that was _precisely_ what he wanted everyone to do, all the bloody time.

"In some ways, yes," he answered, like I knew he would.

"You were getting slow back there," I needled, looking up at his profile.

"No, I wasn't. You just couldn't shut up; had to have your moment of glory, didn't you?" he pressed, sounding annoyed.

"I'm like you, and you wouldn't be dating me if you didn't like that," I reminded him.

"Who said we're dating? I thought we were flatmates. I was _trying_ to find a suitable replacement for John," he muttered, turning away from me slightly.

"Idiot. Why don't you walk home? Or call John, I'm sure he'd be sympathetic to your plight," I retorted crossly, folding my arms over my chest and stamping my feet against the cold.

"He would not relish the fact that I left you here when it's seventeen degrees away from freezing," Sherlock pointed out.

"Oh, go piss off Anderson!" I shouted, turning away.

"Anderson is exceedingly boring. He only amuses me when John or you aren't around." Sherlock finally admitted. I couldn't wait to tell _that_ to John and Mary! We stood there after that in silence.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I don't know how this turned out, I didn't bother to spellcheck or anything. Whatevs, I'm simply trying to get this done; lot's of other stories to work on, unfortunately.**

 **WH**


	4. Reason Four

**Reason 4:**

 **We would argue horridly, and we'd never have any friends besides John and Mary; the only ones who could possibly stand our foolish, at times extremely childish, behavior.**

* * *

"Mary Sue, I didn't know that dull, torpid man was an acquaintance of yours! I'm sure that if I had I would not have dismissed him so quickly!" Sherlock followed after me as I hurried up the stairs leading to our flat. I shook my head vehemently, pulling the key out of my pocket and thrusting it into the lock forcefully.

I whirled as he came up behind me. "You have no idea how real people behave! You don't care about anyone's feelings! As long as everyone conforms to your opinions or agrees with your deductions, they're all right. But the moment someone disagrees with you they're automatically idiots! Do you know how many times you've called _me_ that?" I glared up at him through watery eyes, feeling my cheeks flush with frustration and hurt. Behind me, the door glided open after I unlocked it and turned the knob.

"You don't know how normal people behave either, Mary Sue. In fact, we are the most. . . disagreeable pair to cross paths with humanity," he argued as I entered the flat, trying my level best to get my horrid emotions under control.

"Shut it!" I turned, nearly running into him; he was rather close behind me. "Just. . ." I took an unsteady breath, holding up my hands between us, "Shut. It." His eyebrows rose somewhat, and he straightened. "I don't want to hear excuses at the moment. I would really like some peace. I understand that when you are not the one talking you block everything out, but _listen to me_ _ **now**_ : Leave me in quiet."

"You're behaving as if this was something bordering on catastrophic! This is not nearly as ghastly as you make it sound, Mary Sue!" he shouted as I walked quickly down to the bathroom, slamming and securing the door behind me. "You're acting like a child!" he taunted; I knew he was hoping to get me out of the bathroom. It wouldn't work – not this time! I'd had enough of him and his strange characteristics!

"Mary Sue, please, come out of there." From where I sat on the tile leaning against the door I could sense him resting his hands on the doorframe, probably leaning that dark curly head against the door itself while he stared at the carpet or had his eyes closed, wracking his Mind Palace for something to use to get me out. Not this time, Sherlock. . . not this time, I thought, sniffling pathetically.

"Sh. . . Sherlock, whatever is going on up here?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came to my ears. "Sher _lock_! What have you said to Mary Sue?"

"Mrs. Hudson, don't you have something pressing to do?" Sherlock asked with that annoyed tone in his voice he gets whenever he's been interrupted while in deep thought over a case or when he's preoccupied with some matter or another.

"I called John and Mary, Sherlock. Really, just because Mary Sue shares some of your abilities and such is no reason to treat her like a rug. I'm a woman too, dear, and I understand how she might be feeling. I _have_ known you for some time, and you _are_ rather blunt." Mrs. Hudson, sweet woman, was trying her best, but I knew that none of her words would get through to the moronic-genius standing on the opposite side of the bathroom door.

"Mrs. Hudson, go do what you do best; put on some tea, I believe John and Mary Sue will want some," Sherlock ordered.

"Oh, you'll never get anywhere with a woman if you keep this up, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson warned, probably shaking her head and moving her hands as she always did when he never listened to her advice. It was good advice. He should pay attention to his friends more, the blockhead.

"Mary Sue, please, come out." He sighed long and softly, as if pulling himself together before saying something important. "I'm sorry; please, get out of there so we might work this out."

"No, not until John and Mary get here. You always listen to John, Sherlock, in a way that you will _never_ listen to me. Why? Why can't I be in a place like that? Is it because I'm Mary Sue and this was never a relationship meant to work from the beginning? Come on, admit it, we're not compatible. We're so similar, and it cannot possibly work," I whispered, my tears slowly falling down my face.

"You cannot say that, Mary Sue. We just. . . I might need to amend many of my actions toward you and conclude that you are not exactly as I am: unfeeling and sometimes very nearly incapable of strong emotions. But we're both queer, you must admit." I could tell he was smiling even though he was on the other side of the door, and so I smiled a bit through my tears.

"I suppose."

"And I didn't know that you had any. . . _friends_. I always assumed that your. . . character kept that sort of companionship at bay, as mine did for so long. I don't know how all you caring people found your way to me; it's not fair to any of you, and I cannot understand it." He sighed again.

"Sherlock, Mary Sue. Mrs. Hudson called and said something was wrong. . . Oh." John's voice, his footsteps as he entered the flat; following behind him I could hear Mary.

"Sherlock, what did you do?" Mary's voice now. Lots of concern in it, I noticed.

"We're fine; Mrs. Hudson worries herself into idiotic notions. Not our housekeeper, just our landlady, yet she always manages to involve herself in my personal matters," Sherlock answered brusquely enough. I banged my head back against the door just enough to remind him I was listening. "But she means well enough," he amended.

"What is wrong with you two? John, I can't believe we're letting these two live by themselves and going off and having our own family," Mary declared with a bit of an exasperated sound at the end of her sentence.

"I think. . . Just about everyone wonders that," John answered, probably doing that little smile thing he is always doing when he finds something so pathetic of mine or Sherlock's that it's amusing.

I stood and slowly opened the door. Poking my head out, I asked, "Then children can't have their own children, can they?" Well, forgive me if I indeed had a reason for my emotions exploding and then petering out wildly! Sherlock looked over at me, a frown on his face which always appeared when he was confused or didn't believe something. John was doing that rapid blinking thing, and Mary was the only one smiling in her peculiar way.

"You're an idiot," I scolded Sherlock. "You notice everything about practically everyone _except_ me! This is why I hate being me sometimes. You ignore me like you do Mycroft; really, Sherlock!" I smiled a bit, imitating Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock still stared, but John was coming out of the blinking and dazed thing, and Mary was walking down the short hall to where I was. She hugged me sympathetically, and we both glanced at the men. "Well, you've broken Sherlock, and John is baffled! Imagine, Sherlock playing father!" Mary's smile was infectious, and Sherlock's expression showed that my words were sinking in at an alarmingly fast rate for him to have to process.

"Well. . . This is news!" John finally exclaimed. Mary and I burst into laughter, but Sherlock was speechless.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Remember: just a mary-sue! These are all hypothetical situations, which haven't really happened. Thank you. R &R please, **

**WH**


	5. Reason Five

**Reason 5:**

 **Let's just face it; Molly Hooper would never let me date Sherlock in a million ages. Besides, she's too much his other half for me to even try to force myself between them. I wouldn't even think of it.**

* * *

I walked down the street. As I did, I noticed a tall man in a long overcoat, his dark curls tumbling around his ears and across his forehead, standing outside of St. Barts occasionally trading some conversation with a slightly petite, brown-haired lady standing beside him in a thick sweater and some lovely fawn-colored slacks. My, but how I would like a pair of slacks that nice! I thought at the time. Curious, since I'm a writer and I like observing people, I stood and watched the two for a bit.

The way she looked up him when his gaze turned to the road and the buildings surrounding them told me all about her feelings for him; he was more than an acquaintance met on the street corner. She knew him and seemed familiar with him, chattering on self-consciously about something knowing he was probably ignoring her. I wondered who they were and why he would treat someone who so clearly adored and loved him in such an unfeeling manner.

But, as I thought such things, I reminded myself of my own love life: an empty void. Perhaps this man standing next to a woman who loved him but oblivious to it was similar in personality to myself. We were very good at solving things and putting things in order, but when it came to humans and their nature we were like a fish out of water: completely and fully out of our element.

My sympathies were with that pretty brown-haired, bright-eyed lady as I walked on to my flat. If he ever realized just how much she cared before it was too late, he would be a fortunate man. We quiet, rather eccentric, withdrawn people needed normal human beings at our sides so that we won't wreak havoc on this world with our curious set of skills. If no one cared for us, we would be horrible, horrible people capable of anything because we lacked those proper emotions which made for the good, ordinary people surrounding us.

I sincerely hope John Watson, Molly Hooper, and all the other good, ordinary people in his life show him this. I dearly hope so, since I will never be a part of his life and if I were I couldn't hope to show him these things myself. We're too much alike, Sherlock Holmes and I. We need good people to make us good, otherwise we're ships adrift in a storm. A danger to ourselves and everyone around us without someone to ground us properly. We need someone to guide us safe home.

 _ **~ finis ~**_


End file.
